


Choking

by symphorophilia (klismaphilia)



Series: Town of Internal Monologue [1]
Category: Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: Depression, Eye Horror, Gen, Schizophrenia, Self-Hatred, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:41:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4501191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/symphorophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He just wanted to stop drowning in that pitch sea of hopelessness...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choking

**Author's Note:**

> Second person drabble about the jester, pre-lynching. Trigger warnings as expected.

You’re filled with grief ever so often these days, and your time is spent crying into a dirty pillow, dribbling sorrows from your swollen eyelids as you drown from the sheer force of the mess you’d created. You don’t find yourself motivated anymore, don’t want to move most days. You feel trapped, paralyzed, and you prefer to keep to yourself, a shut-in, reflecting on the filthy memories from your past. You’ve contemplated, time and time again, the reason for your existence, but there is no method to your madness. There is no reason, no point.

You’ve wasted countless hours through these endless days, slamming your fist into the wall or pressing your hands over your ears, screaming at the top of your lungs. Nobody listens to you, of course, and you don’t expect them to. The only ones who listen are them, those sickeningly sweet whispers in your ears, the way they haunt you even at night, tip of their knives ghosting over your skin as they place the rope around your sorry neck.

Don’t you know, my dear? Don’t you realize how free you’ll be? Are you there, are you hanging, are you watching from your little window? Swaying in the wind, eyes cut out and swallowed? Oh, what a lovely picture you’d make, the hanging man, a hanging man of our very own…

They speak, always, odd hours of the night and throughout the day, demanding in those honey-coated tones that you die, that you hang. They call you beautiful, they use such colorful, softly flowing words and they wait for you to die, wait for you to hang…

You often bite your lip, the blood seeping through the torn flesh, leaking and dribbling over your chin. The cracks seep through your porcelain face, revealing what you can only assume is sickness underneath, a sea of black pitch that could swallow you whole. That is you, the real you, the you that you want them all to see, to hear, to kill…

You swallow your sobs in the square, trying to blend in, to keep your head down, away from the hustle and bustle of the crowd. Your lip is bloody, fat and swollen from the way you keep tearing at it with your teeth. Your arms often wrap around your bony frame, trying to prevent the shivers that stem from the untreated need to destroy yourself.

When you throw caution to the wind, you start screaming, and the faces turn away from you, leaving an endless expanse of grey. Your canvas, once bright red, black and white checkerboard beneath, has been erased, turning into a single, muddled grey shade with a very subjective red dot in the center. You can’t blink, in fear of losing the single spot of color that remains, but you will lose it anyway; you lose everything in the end.

You cry and scream and howl your woes to the wind, and it all falls on deaf ears, the town shoving you away, labeling you as insane, and rightfully so. Days pass, nights grow colder and colder until they’re all filled with ice, ice that cracks beneath your feet and falls back into the expanse of black water. You disappear into it, letting it swallow you whole, drowning and drowning and drowning and…

Hanging.

You grow more and more desperate, your screams a ploy for any attention. Any at all. But the attention you garner is nothing good, only hideous eyes that stare at you with disgust, a tearing pain in your head that comes with them as the voices shout. They want you to kill them, kill everyone, everything needs to die…

You. You need to die, you need to hang, they demand it, thirsting for that thick rope around your bruised neck, your dull brown eyes dead and eaten by birds. You need to die to save yourself, and your own heart yearns for it so… you remember the days of razorblades over your thin paper skin, the way the doctors shaved off your light paper hair, and the way your paper heart burst and shattered at even the tiniest display of kindness, only to restructure and disappear into the pitch with the rest of you.

You cry still, and you’ve soaked the bed in your tears, in your blood, the stains on your sheet impossibly large and grotesque. You hate it, you hate them, you hate everything. You hate yourself most of all, knowing that you’re weak, sick, foolish…

You cry still, and they laugh.

Days pass then, days that are long and harrowing, and all you can imagine is the sickening crunch of your neck snapping, your vertebrae broken beyond repair. You imagine the last smile on your face, wearing you rather than you wearing it. The voices promise to shut up if you comply, and at some point, you stop screaming. You fade away into the background, unnoticed, until the day they begin to scream at you.

Irony always had a funny way of revealing itself, and even on the stand, you scream and wail and drown your sorrow in falsities and lies. You swallow, breathing the last breath you will ever take, and as they prepare to pull the chair out from beneath you, you laugh and laugh and laugh. No more crying, no more listening, no more torment. You don’t have to drown in the darkness, you get to fly with your paper wings and busted paper heart and cracked paper skin.

You are a paper man in a paper world and now you’re free.


End file.
